The Daughter and the Detective
by FredNeverDied
Summary: Lucy Watson suffers from acute (and possibly terminal) hero worship of her godfather, the detective. Sherlock holds a place in his heart (that's possibly larger than is healthy) for his godchild, John's daughter. And every now and then, the two of them need to catch up...and if that means he dangles her in front of a potential drug lord as their choice activity, then so be it.
1. I

_Before anyone gets confused, this follows Lucy, John and Mary's second daughter; I think Sherlock would have a bias towards the younger sibling anyway. And say what you will about Mary, I will continue to believe that she survives until Moffat the Troll inevitably kills her. First Sherlock fic, tell me what you think please!_

* * *

_The Daughter and the Detective: I_

Lucy Watson buried her head in her hands and smeared her fingers down her face. She was getting a nasty headache and her eyes were burning from lack of sleep; but after this much effort, nothing was going to keep her from solving the puzzle.

Sighing deeply, she removed her hands and blinked until her tired eyes focused again, quickly resuming her scrutiny of the images on the page before her.

...A duke kneeling before a king...beside a yellow beach...orange fish jumping out of the ocean next to them...trees and mountains fringing up in the background...a garishly colored sun shining through the clouds…delegations from both sides lining up behind the two dignitaries...

Two pictures. Exact same image. The _exact same image_. Every section, every color, every minute detail was completely and totally similar. Of course they were, _they had to be!_

Lucy had poured over them constantly, night and day, using every method she knew—glanced away and then right back; crossed her eyes so they focused on the separate images and saw them simultaneously; taken them squared inches by squared inches and compared ruthlessly; even referred to her older sister's opinion as a last resort, and it wasn't like _Grace_ could observe to save a life.

And still those two images were Just. The. _Same_.

But yet, somehow, the handwriting at the top spelled clearly, "SPOT THE DIFFERENCE." It was her godfather's handwriting—just as distinctive as his voice. By now, that handwriting was mocking her: "Can't figure it out, can you, hm? The time's ticking away, Luce. I thought you'd said you were getting better at these things?"

Her nostrils flared at the thought and she crossed her eyes again, hoping they'd spot the trick, but the shooting pains in her brain forced her to relax again and massage the throbbing migraine.

He'd handed her the page three days ago.

"Give this one a try," he'd said with the hint of a smirk in his eyes. "See if you can figure it out."

"Stain glass windows?" she'd asked, taking it from him, arching an eyebrow. "You _are_ kidding, right? Like a kid's coloring book? It's so simple. It's pre-sectioned off—the eye spots differences immediately."

"We'll see."

"I can do it."

The skin beneath his eyes lifted just enough—amusement, mischief, curiosity—to tell her he was concealing a smile.

"We'll see."

Three. Damn. Days. Ago.

"Lucy?"

Were the crowns different perhaps?

"_Lucy_."

Maybe a different angle? She spun the paper ninety degrees.

"Lucy Watson!"

Her head popped up and she felt the back of her neck warm with color. Twenty-one sets of eyes were trained on her, one of them her French teacher's, Madame Ross'.

Oh.

Right.

Lucy cleared her throat.

"Ah—_Pardon_?"

"Could we take the translation, please, Ms. Watson?"

Lucy glanced down at the book in her lap, open to a story that had probably been translated aloud a long time before while she was concentrating on the pictures.

_So_...Just what page was the class on now?

Her eyes flicked up and around the room for answers.

Madame Ross' lips were pursed in annoyance. This was the second time Lucy had been caught ignoring the lesson since Monday, and by now the French teacher was showing no mercy—so there would be no help from her. The boy to Lucy's left—Nicholas, wasn't it?—had turned his page up so that she couldn't read off his book and pretend she was doing so out of her own—apparently he'd figured out her trick then.

_Damn_—she'd have to get creative. Lucky for her, she'd spent half her childhood with a high-functioning sociopath doing his very best to indoctrinate her into his way of thinking. After all, she _had_ been the prime choice for an apprentice, since Grace, three years her senior, had been amicably dismissed by the time she was five. Lucy wasn't anywhere near as good as her godfather would have preferred her to be—a fact he liked to go on a rant about whenever he fancied—but: she was still leaps and bounds ahead of her classmates as far as intellect went.

A quick glance behind Nicholas proved fruitless—there were no reflective water bottles, glasses, or screens she could she could use to decipher his book and the angles were wrong for her to see anyone else's. She was in the front of the room too—so there would be no hints from before, none from behind, and none to the left.

To the right? The girl had her book in her lap. Dammit. Further to the right? Bad angles. Not legible. _Dammit_ again. But—there was the open window on the right wall. And if she leaned back just a little, it would be reflecting the open pages of the boy beneath it.

'_Le mouvement écologique a commencé en France dans les années 1970…_'

Oh yes, simple really. Regardless of the fact that it was backwards and upside down—_oh!_ the exercises she'd been drilled in when it came to ri_dic_ulous reading situations—the translation itself was basic knowledge.

She glanced down at the book in her lap again and pretended to translate.

"The ecological movement began in France in the 1970's but it only really developed in the 1980's…" a glance at the window to memorize the rest, "…when ecological conscience was awakened by major crises such as Chernobyl in 1986, the greenhouse effect, and oil spills."

Unable to help her cheek, Lucy looked up and batted her eyelashes at the teacher.

"Correct," Madame Ross said, obviously disgruntled. "Thank you for that Ms. Watson."

Lucy smiled vaguely, held the other woman's gaze for just a moment, and began to duck her head again to examine the pictures.

"Just a moment!"

Lucy winced despite herself, and she could just hear the voice of a certain special someone berating her for showing guilt. After all, one was only caught when one _allowed_ themselves to be. Carefully schooling an expression of mild confusion onto her face, Lucy resurfaced, leveling her gaze with the French teacher's.

Madame Ross adjusted her glasses.

"Lucy, what were we on about this time?"

"I-I'm sorry—?"

"What were we doing when weren't we weren't following along?" Madame Ross asked, her voice steely.

It was best to just play dumb—everyone knew better anyway so it wasn't as though her classmates would think her ditzy; and in any case, a teacher could argue a student's intentions only so far.

"I'm afraid I zoned out," Lucy replied, carrying enough guilt in her voice to sound believable.

"You never just zone out," Madame Ross insisted. "What was it this time?" She was apparently quite tired of Lucy pursuing other (arguably more important) matters during her class and was going to embarrass or badger the girl into giving the practice up.

"I was just..." Lucy shrugged. "Thinking through another assignment, I suppose. Very sorry."

"For which class?"

Dog with a bone, this one. Lucy controlled the urge to puff her cheeks out with frustration.

"It was only—"

"Hello? Yes, excuse me, hello," came a new voice.

Gasps and hardly-hushed whispers abounded as twenty-two pairs of eyes fixed on the man at the door, one of the Madame Ross,' one of them Lucy Watson's. The girl's face split into a wide grin.

"Sherlock Holmes," whispered Nicholas to the boy on his left. "Really, look, it's _the_ Hat Detective. Trench coat and everything."

"Not interrupting anything important, am I?" asked the man of the moment, ignoring the teacher and addressing Lucy directly.

"Not really," she replied, fully aware that she was knocking the lesson. "Why, do you need me?"

He winked at her in affirmation.

"Grab your things."

Lucy grinned again and snatched up her schoolbag, slid her books and pens into it, and rose to her feet all in one fluid motion. She was shrugging on her coat when a sputtering from the teacher's direction caught her attention.

"Sorry," Madame Ross managed to get out. "We're very sorry." Lucy glanced to her godfather and Sherlock arched an eyebrow at her in disbelief. This woman wasn't _really_ about to stand up against them, was she?

"We're very, very sorry Mr. Holmes," Madame Ross continued, the levels of irritation and disremorse mounting in her tone with each 'very sorry.' "But I don't think we're aware of something important. We don't have the right to take Lucy out of school."

"Is that so?" Sherlock murmured, delving into one of his deep pockets. "This permission slip states otherwise. Signed by both her parents, see?" he produced the piece of paper with a flourish.

Lucy bit her tongue and refused herself the desire to crack a smile. What was this, the _fifth_ permission slip Sherlock had produced in the semester? She glanced over the page and noted the signatures with approval. Sherlock was definitely improving in his forgery hobby.

"She has a dentist's appointment," he said simply, as though this cleared everything away and made for the door.

"Very, _very_ sorry! But I'm afraid we're still missing another very important detail," said Madame Ross, adjusting her glasses again. "Miss Watson has already missed four classes this semester."

"And?" replied Sherlock drily. Murmurs fluttered across the room again as the students sensed an argument. Lucy quietly continued to pack her things into her bag.

"And it's only March!" Madame Ross said stuffily. "If we keep this up, we won't get enough credits for the class."

Sherlock sighed and leant his head back.

"Are you noticing that?" he drawled, addressing the ceiling for all the world to see.

"...The 'Royal We'?" Lucy supplied, assuming he had intended the question for her. "I am. ...Enlightening, isn't it?"

"Quite," he said softly, scrutinizing a flickering fluorescent light. "...And all the more reason to get you out of here as soon as possible. Come along then." Sherlock finished his contemplation of the ceiling panels and made to exit, Lucy in tow, when Madame Ross made a sharp noise.

"Just a moment!" she cried.

The pair pivoted around to fix her with identical looks of condescension—Lucy hadn't begged to be her godfather's pupil for nothing and after all, one was bound to learn a bit more than just deduction skills under his tutoring, general patronizing habits included. But apparently, Madame Ross had stronger mettle than the average person (or perhaps a more superior dose of stupidity) for she plunged onward.

"_I_'ll have you know, Lucy can't leave school like this, it's not allowed." She readjusted her glasses again and crossed her arms. "Note or no note, _I_'m very sorry, but there's a process that must be gone through and _I_ cannot sanction this.

Sherlock sighed.

"I didn't want to have to do this," Lucy heard him mutter under his breath.

"Yes you did," she breathed. Sherlock cut his eyes at her slyly—that was amusement and bit of pride in her showing through—causing her to blush with pleasure. He dipped his head slightly, as if to agree with the deduction he knew she'd just made, before redirecting his attention to Madame Ross.

"And why is that?" he said, furrowing his brow with sarcasm at the teacher. "Just why _can't_ Lucy leave school?" She opened her mouth to respond but he cut across her, his irritation obviously growing. "_No!_ Don't speak, it was rhetorical. Lucy has an average of a 98 in this class, which, judging from your other pupils' faces, not to mention your own, is higher than all the rest except for..." his eyes flicked about, "...the pair sitting over there in the corner."

He pointed to two students sitting in the back row, who both jumped and squirmed under his gaze.

"One of whom," Sherlock continued, "Has no hobbies, jobs, interests, or real talent outside of schoolwork—" he turned back and threw at the student in question: "Try all you might, you're not helping yourself if you only ingest this status quo curriculum; and the second child—" The finger shifted. "Is skating by via paying another student who is—?"

He quirked his head towards Lucy in question.

"Two years older," she offered immediately.

"Very good—_two_ years older for their recycled papers and assignments. You may want to compare against the record or even simply against the child's own intellect. It should be obvious that he is not the one writing the assignments he's turning in.

"So to be clear, I find that if anyone can, Lucy is certainly capable of catching up on all the _French translations_ she needs to, wouldn't you agree?" He finished with a smirk as Madame Ross mouthed the words 'French translations;' for Sherlock had just said them as though her class had been working in a coloring book instead of a text-tome.

"But you—" She tried.

"Thank you madam, I'll have her back before the end of the day!"

And, with one arm sweeping the girl out of her class, the other firmly gripping the handle, the door was slammed shut in the French teacher's face.

* * *

_A/N: Came up with this one upon a midnight dreary. And no, that's not me being poetic, that's just me half-way excusing the premise. My deprived, exhausted mind cooked this up but I really did fall in love with Lucy (and even Grace,) so while they're not write-ins, please tell me what you think of them as far as OC's go because a bad OC is the most annoying thing on the planet. My judgment, as I've said, is too biased and will be disregarded. Critics—even rude ones—you are formally invited to flame this as you deem appropriate. That is all._


	2. II

_The Daughter and the Detective: II_

They had the grace to get relatively out of earshot before they burst out laughing. Sherlock came to a halt, a hand on his goddaughter's shoulder, and they laughed till Lucy had tears of mirth in her eyes.

"Which did you like the most?" she asked after a moment, still chuckling. "The look of self-righteous annoyance at first or the complete shock when you banged the door shut?"

"Oh the shock definitely," he replied. "'How dare we do something without her approval!?' Almost adorable, wasn't it?"

"Hm," she agreed, following him as he began to make his way down the corridor.

"Thank you, by the way," she said as they turned a corner. "I was just about to get in trouble."

"Oh? What did you say this time?"

"Nothing, surprisingly. I just wasn't paying attention in _Royal We's_ class."

"My, my. I can't imagine."

"Exactly—I was working on those pictures you gave me. The spot the difference ones."

"_Oh?_"

"Yeah." Lucy waited a moment to see if he was interested enough to press her for details.

"And?" he said, drawing a semi-triumphant smile from her. "Did you make any progress?"

"I swear they're the same," she said, remembering her exasperation and groaning. "There's _nothing_ different."

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

"If that's what you think...?"

"It is, I can't find the difference anywhere."

He glanced back away and minute shifting of his coat indicated that his shoulders had slumped slightly: she read that as his disappointment, no longer piqued enough to observe her, enough (unsatisfactory) information taken in already. Her heart sank.

"I see," he said. "Keep working on it, then—Oh hold on now, stop." She turned back to see that he had pulled up next an adjoining corridor and was peering down it with mischief in his eyes again.

"What?"

"Grace is down this hall in Physics class, yes?"

"Of course she is. You know her schedule."

"Come here." He started down the hall.

"What are we doing?" Lucy said, following slowly. "Since when are you interested in my sister's science courses?"

"Just come here!"

She scurried after him.

Sherlock was leaning against a doorframe, peering into a classroom through the narrow window in the door. Lucy wriggled underneath his chin to peek in herself.

Her older sister, Grace, was sitting in the back row between two other girls, hunched over her papers and writing rapidly. Lucy snorted.

"She isn't taking notes," she muttered.

"Course she isn't, no one writes notes like that." Sherlock replied. He angled his head to see further into the room. "And her idiot of a teacher bloody well can't tell—drop out of school when you can, alright? It's not worth your time to deal with teachers like this."

Lucy rolled her eyes. She was used to his kind of advice.

"Perhaps he just doesn't _care_ that she's not paying attention."

"Of course he cares," Sherlock scoffed. "Just look at all the posters on the wall—he _loves_ his subject. Simply doesn't realize that _she_ couldn't give a damn."

"Do you think she's working on another Dirk Lawrence story?"

They considered her for a moment and as they watched, Grace paused, creasing her forehead to look uncannily like her father when he was bemused, and glared at the page for a moment before her eyebrows popped up, she smirked, and began scribbling again.

"_Lawrence_," they decided together.

"She doesn't get nearly as intense about anything else," Lucy said.

"Hm," agreed Sherlock. "Treats Dirk like he's her own child."

"Well you know writers—they're so obsessive over their characters."

Sherlock let out a chortle.

"Never live with one," he said. "They're a_larm_ingly boring. All the action goes on in their heads and that's the very foil of fun."

Lucy snickered.

"I'll keep it in mind."

They observed Grace for a moment more before Sherlock pushed off from the wall and turned back to the main corridor they'd come from.

"She's very good though," Lucy said, tagging along behind him.

"Hm." Sherlock said distractedly. "...There're just enough plot twists."

Lucy stopped dead in her tracks. Sherlock continued for a few steps before realizing that she had frozen. He pivoted to look at her.

"D-did you-you just—" she stammered. "Did you just _admit_ that you...enjoy a _seventeen-year-old girl's_ writings?"

Sherlock's jaw clenched.

"No," he said tightly, turning his back to her with a swirl of the coat and striking off.

"You did too!" Lucy said doggedly, scrambling to reach his side.

"_I_?" he said in a dry voice, "_I_, partial to the ongoing serial of a treasure hunter, with a name as idiotic as Dirk Lawrence, written by a seventeen-year-old?"

"And a _Watson_ at that!" Lucy affirmed, giving him her cheekiest grin. Sherlock pressed his lips into a firm line.

"...Don't tell anyone?" he said finally. Lucy just barely managed to keep from laughing at him.

"_Promise_," she said. "...Now what did you kidnap me from class for?"

* * *

The car pulled to a stop next to a decrepit old warehouse on the outskirts of London. It was a dismal sight with more than a few windows broken and re-covered with tape; 'Warning' and 'No Trespassing' signs posted on all the doors; strands of barbed wire, long-since sawed through and pulled away, littering the ground; and John Watson, waiting outside with his arms crossed, next to his car parked fifty meters from the building, and looking very, very unhappy.

"I take it you _didn't_ tell him you were roping me into this?" Lucy asked, surveying her father's stance. Sherlock, turning the car off, offered John a cursory glance.

"Oh of course not," he said, sounding distracted again, "But that's not what he's angry about. Not yet anyway. The sun's glaring off the windshield from this angle, he can't see you at all. No, no, he's just annoyed that I'm late."

"Ah," Lucy muttered. "Then this'll be a lovely bit of new information, won't it?"

She caught Sherlock grinning to himself as he reached into the back to grab a parcel.

"There," he said, dumping it into her lap. "Equip yourself."

She sifted through sunglasses; a flimsy, decorative purse; a notepad; a pen; and a tube of mascara.

"_Not_ wearing this," she muttered, setting the makeup aside.

"Give it a rest," Sherlock replied, forcing it back into her hands. "You're not comprising your integrity if you wear a bit of paint every once in a while. ...Besides, it's for your cover."

"Right, right; my cover," she said, mulling the last word over, enjoying the sound of it. It made her sound awfully professional, like she was officially part of the famous Holmes & Watson duo. She had a secret cover... Lucy sighed, smiled to herself, pulled down the mirror above her, and began applying the sticky makeup.

A crunching sound signaled John's approach from outside as he made his way across the gravel.

"An _hour and a half_," he called, sounding extremely disgruntled. "A bloody _hour and a half_ I've been waiting here alone, _right_ where you told me to be, right _when_ you told me to be. I've got a real job you know—there were multiple appointments I had to cancel for this."

Sherlock glanced to Lucy and rolled his eyes over John.

"Sorry," he said (not sounding very sorry at all,) as he got out of the car. "Had to do a bit of research and then pick up a friend."

Lucy noted the term he used for her with pride but didn't get out from the car yet as she calmly started on her second eye.

"Oh great!" Said John, rolling his head around his neck in exasperation. "Lovely. Really wonderful, Sherlock. Which tramp is it that's going to join us today?"

"Tramp?" Sherlock asked innocently, glancing inside at Lucy.

"Is it one of your homeless drug experts this time? ...Or maybe the new 'Napoleon of Petty Theft' here to enlighten us in the subtleties of his art? ...Oh, or perhaps it's a homeless who know about a set of secret tunnels that begin underneath this building, recently commissioned as an international gang's headquarters? _Do_ tell which one, I'm all ears."

"Not at all," Sherlock replied, with a gentle nod of the head to Lucy. "Just an intended actress."

"Oh please," John scoffed. "Just what—" But he cut off as Lucy got out of the car.

Father and daughter stood looking at each other for a moment, John's posture slumped with anger and exhaustion, Lucy fighting the urge to shuffle her feet out of guilt.

John turned to his best friend.

"I hate you," he deadpanned. "I really do. You've done this _three times already!_" the facade broke and he lashed out with a finger directly in Sherlock's face. "You take her out of school to go on who-knows-what-kind-of escapades and now you blatantly do it in front of me—do you _really_ think I'm okay with this!?"

"Four other times," Lucy coughed.

"_Four_ other times!" John corrected himself, never breaking eye contact with Sherlock. "It's only March! This is the fifth absence from school!"

"There was also the fire drill he set off in January, but I was only gone two minutes for that one."

"Lucy, dearest, I'd appreciate it if you didn't _try_ to incriminate me." Sherlock said out of the corner of his mouth.

"Sorry," she muttered.

"No, no, it's quite alright, loyalty's apparently not her strong-suit anyhow," said John, still fuming.

"Oh John please," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "You knew this would happen when you let me start teaching her."

"Don't!" John cried. "Don't make this my fault again—you _always_ do this!"

Neither friend nor child showed any sign of backing down or remorse and John pursed his lips.

"Right. _Right_. I'm taking her back now."

"_Dad_," Lucy whined, unable to help herself.

"John, be reasonable. Her alibi is a dentist's appointment; she has plenty of time as far as school is concerned. And besides, we need her."

"_Need_ her?"

"Yes, _need_ her. Send her back now and your staying here for two hours will have been entirely in vain."

John's nostrils flared.

"And I'll bet that's why you ordered me into the middle of nowhere so early in the first place." He muttered bitterly. Sherlock didn't respond. John puffed air out of his cheeks.

"Right," he said, his posture akimbo, mouthset grim. "I'm not allowing this—I'm _not_, don't give me that look—but if I _was_...what would you have her doing?"

Lucy bit the insides of her cheek to keep from smirking.

Sherlock limited himself to curling his lips into a smile.

"Finally," he said. "The right question."

* * *

_A/N: Do we consider this a drabble fic (not a Royal We, it's a genuine question) or a four-shot fic? A drabble's definition being that it does not necessarily have a plot other than being a situation in which the characters interact and a four-shot implying that the storyline is structured within that? Or does that just count as a character-driven story, rather than plotline-driven and drabbles are more like fluffy word-burblings? … Ah, sorry. The nuances of writing, my friends, the nuances of writing! _


	3. III

Mongo-huge hugs and kisses to Lunalove25, 221bRavenclawFireflyRoseTyler, grace2girl16, Poemwriter98, and NerdyGirl0414 for the lovely reviews. Super-special thanks (gee this is familiar) to SkittlesGal for the help and advice. Am I doing much better?

* * *

_The Daughter and the Detective: III_

Sherlock took a step back from them and, out of habit; the two Watson gave him room for a pacing track. The consulting detective fell into step, his eyes intent on a file only he could see in his mind palace, gesticulating grandly with his hands as he shuffled through the papers.

"We're here at the former Renfrow-Alexander Storage Warehouse," he started. "But now classifiable dump, in Crumlin, London. It's long-since fallen into disrepair, making it the perfect filming site for the B-Rated horror film, _Blood Runs in Gutters_, coming out next year and obviously going to _tank_. Starring in the movie is actor Colin Mears, washed-up performer, used to do film and stage, popular about ten years ago, still relatively good-looking enough to have a chance at a career, you might remember him John?"

"Can we get through the exposition, Sherlock?" John said tersely.

"Going as fast as I can—Mears, whose semi-fame has dwindled over the years, subsequently his funds, both of which he began to miss, has recently been trying to reboot his career, throwing himself into five different projects in the last eleven months.

"Two of the projects: two onstage, one a short film, and two movies, both horrid; have been purged in the last seven months in drug busts from the Yard. Not enough to incriminate Mears, simple coincidence; besides, he'd already finished his performing weeks beforehand on both occasions; therefore completely innocent, right?

"Sure, please. Why not?"

"No, _wrong_. A little research amongst my homeless network, going on a hunch here and there, digging through some dumpsters, investigating a few drughouses—don't say a word John, I didn't touch anything—and, as expected, every other location he'd worked in were linked.

"Simple case. Very boring. He's obviously involved, just set one of Gaheris' men on him ("Greg," John corrected under his breath,) and he'll mess up eventually, they always do. It's hardly a _three_ on the levels of difficulty.

"But here's where it gets fun. The amount of drugs was always minuscule compared to the amount of effort it would take to transport them. Take one of his theater jobs as example. Our drugs were smuggled in disguised as makeup, easily done, pale powder in a small bag, often needed by the actors, brought in by delivery boys once every two weeks or so. The fine arts center was used as a drop off for quite a while, but the odd thing is, why with that method? The amount of work to get that small increment of substance in and out far outweighs the profit.

"And these odd transport amounts are always related to Mears and subsequently to the dramatic arts. Why? Does the orchestrator have an affinity for thespian activities? Trying to be deliberately and literally dramatic about the whole affair? Scotland Yard thinks the drugs have led to the deaths of six people within London; they're wrong, it's nine—and no John I haven't told them yet, they'll only muck up the works, you know that.

"So: We've got a dangerous, addictive drug, new to London , from out of town, probably a few kilometers northeast, but I'm waiting for Molly to confirm on that one, with a very curious way of being brought in and, the most fun, a possible narcissistic ringleader trying to be melodramatic."

He spun on his heel to face them again and smiled, clearly finished.

"Sorry," said John, his arms still crossed, sounding very unimpressed. "You've yet to explain what we're doing here then."

Sherlock's enjoyment withered.

"Honestly John, stop being stupid, I _swear_ you do it on purpose!"

Lucy's father remained impassive.

"Fine!" Sherlock huffed. "_Mears_, _Mears_, where is _Mears_ in all this? Is he the leader or the device? I need to get a reading on him, see how he handles himself. I can narrow it down once I find out and be done before lunch tomorrow. His career's gone downhill and these low-pay jobs could just be trying to buzz interest till he gets a good role. In that case, he's still an easy target for our ringleader: a man down on his luck, used to the highs and lows of fame and cheap thrills, willing to do demeaning things for money? That's not far from being a amateur drug dealer. Or perhaps he's the narcissistic honcho himself getting involved in the legwork of his operation just to watch the underlings scramble and feel gratified knowing it's all for him."

"Lovely story, all of that. But what does my daughter have to do with any of it?"

Lucy bit her lip. She'd connected the dots a bit before and was now pulling between impressing her mentor and avoiding being condescending towards her father, both men, of course, commanding massive respect and admiration from her.

"Well," she said quietly. "Dad—"

"Oh, don't _you_ tell me!"

"Well, it's slightly obvious."

"It was rhetorical Lucy, of course I know why he wants you here!" John cried. "I've been at this with the almighty Mr. Sherlock Holmes for years longer than you've been alive, don't act like I'm blind! And here's the answer: I will _not_ allow you to go wheedle reactions and information out of a potential drug lord, using your young, innocent face. What's the plan for all this? You dress up like a normal teenager—yes, _of_ _course_ I noticed the makeup—and go pretend to be a fan of Mears' acting? Possibly get an autograph so that _this_ blighter," he jabbed a thumb in Sherlock's direction "Can analyze it and tell us about how arrogant he is, whether or not his father was a drunk, which primary school he went to within Western Europe, and what kind of shoes he wears?"

"Well that _was_ the idea," Sherlock scoffed.

John leaned his head back and let out a deep sigh, searching the sky for answers. Lucy caught herself shuffling her feet.

"I am _not_ going to let—"

He was interrupted by a noise from the warehouse. The trio looked up to see a door swinging open as about a dozen people emptied out of the ramshackle building. Sherlock, excitable and energetic again, checked his watch.

"Sorry John, I'd planned for your arguing to end two minutes ago and they're all out for lunch—Luce, you remember the face I showed you in the car?"

"Of course!" she said, snapping into action.

It was go-time and she was trying to quickly finish internally processing the fact that Sherlock was including her in one of his escapades again. This was, definably, the biggest episode she'd been involved with yet—drug lords, to _think_!—and she was not going to fail or pass up on the opportunity. With this role, she had a part in one of the glory-filled bedtime stories that she'd grown up with. Peter Pan and Captain Hook...Robin Hood and the Sheriff of Nottingham...King Arthur and Sir Mordred...Jim Hawkins and Long John Silver...Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty...(Lucy Watson and Colin Mears. Of course, she wasn't at bedtime-story-status yet by any stretch—but she _was_ getting steadily closer.)

"Just a moment now—" John started irritably, pulling her from her daydream.

"Lucy," Sherlock ordered, his eyes trained on the crowd over at the building. "Spot him."

She craned her neck and easily picked out the man from the pictures she'd scrolled though on Sherlock's phone.

"There," she said, indicating with her head before delving back into the car. "Chatting with the makeup artist."

"You cannot—" John tried to continue, before cocking his head to the side. "Hang on, how can you possibly tell from this distance that it's the make up—?"

"The smudges on her clothes," Lucy called over her shoulder as she adjusted her purse and sunglasses in the car's rear-view mirrors. "And, no offense, but my eyes are better than yours." She missed her father glancing to his friend who nodded approvingly at the girl's back.

"Skin-colored paint?" she continued, oblivious to the exchange going on behind her. "Not likely, but if it was, she'd hardly be one to go out of the house with that kind of stain—look at how fashionably she tries to dress."

John had momentarily slipped back on the curious detective's hat instead of the concerned father's.

"Why would she dress fashionably if she knows she'll get makeup on her?"

Lucy surfaced, her brow scrunched, her lips pursed, obviously frustrated, before she slumped her shoulders and turned to Sherlock.

"I don't know," she said dejectedly.

He briefly put a hand on her shoulder.

"You got pretty far," he said. "She's showing off for Mears, just look at how hard she's flirting with him."

They turned to survey the scene going on fifty meters away where the young makeup artist was leaning against a wall and giggling uproariously at Mears, who was apparently pantomiming a grand story. The three wrinkled their noses.

"Flirts with much younger women," John muttered.

"Noted," Sherlock replied.

"What does she see in him?"

"Money. Fame. He's getting there again and she's been in the business long enough to know when someone's career is warming up."

"Well that's it then," said John. "He's in it for the career in acting if he's working hard enough to make an impression and he's simply trying to earn money on the side with the drugs. Case clo—" He trailed off when he saw the look he was getting from his daughter and his detective.

"Oh _fine_," he cried. "If I'm going to be taking this much heat for it we might as well get this over and done with! Send her in!"

A private smirk traveled between the younger two. One quick smile at her father and, with Sherlock's guiding hand on her back, Lucy was led forward to the warehouse, her shoulders straight, her hands relaxed.

"Bugger me," John muttered, letting his posture sag with annoyance and defeat.

"Oh John?"

He looked up.

"Do get back in the car; you look terribly obvious standing around like that staring after us."

Grumbling, John stumbled back into his car and watched after the other two like a hawk. As they neared their quarry, Sherlock leaned down to whisper something in Lucy's ear before peeling off to the side and concealing himself behind an extruding chimney in the wall. The girl hesitated for a beat, visibly braced herself, and strode up to a potential drug lord, confidence in every set of her stance.

"Bugger me," John muttered again, dropping his forehead to the steering wheel.

* * *

_A/N: On a side note, I started watching Doctor Who last night. Any last words before I get totally sucked in? "No regrets."_

_A very merry day to you all! (I've been forgetting to do that, eep!)_

_-Freddie_


	4. IV

_The Daughter and the Detective: IV_

"...I've seen, like, _every_ single one of your movies!" Lucy squealed for second time at the astounded-looking Colin Mears. "My favorite's got to be _The Bass Man_—the concert scene at the end is just, like, _I can't even_. It's so good that I _just can't even_. Or _The Runaway_? That was your first thriller, right? Oh, I'm getting chills just thinking about it—you were so cool, taking down like, a _billion_ bad guys at once in the fight scene on the rooftop!"

"I, well, it's uh..." Mears stammered in response. Lucy refrained from narrowing her eyes as she analyzed the reaction. He was obviously thrown off his pace—understandable, how often were obsolete actors accosted by fourteen-year-old fangirls? But now she needed to see how fast he could recover. If he couldn't, case closed, he was no big shot drug dealer, but if did...

"...It's about time somebody remembered those classics!" Mears finished. The makeup artist giggled again and Mears grinned at her slyly. He could still be the ringleader who was on top of everything or the bimbo who could manage a witty reply while he was flirting with a girl twice as young as him. Lucy ignored the bile rising in her throat and continued, all smiles, all idiotic.

"My mum is _such_ a huge fan of yours and I grew up watching those movies!" she said, her voice never far from a squeal. "I could do all the lines by the time I was six. 'Never again. Never again do I take no for an answer.' Brilliant delivery, just brilliant from _On Dover's Cliffs_."

"Know your stuff don't you?" Mears said, "Yeah, that was an excellent movie. ...Broke my leg filming the last scene." He added with a small pout.

"You poor thing," the makeup artist cooed. He turned to her, clearly about to make some jocular comment but Lucy stepped in before he could.

"Well you pulled it off spectacularly," she said effusively. "Do you...do you think I could get an autograph? I wrangled my dad into dropping me off out here just so I could see you—I follow your blog to know where you're shooting, you're so _funny!_—and if I didn't come away with something to show for it—"

"Of course!" Mears said. "I'd love to! Anything for an _adoring_ fan!"

"I've got—" Lucy began, holding out the pen and notepad Sherlock had given her.

"Never mind, I have my own," he replied, whipping out a gold pen and flip book. Lucy controlled the smile threatening to show as he signed his name with a flourish and said to the artist: "Young people like this, y'know? So loving. So energetic. Just makes you want your own, doesn't it...?" If he carried his own pen and pad around, he was obviously an arrogant old git.

She made a list in her head: narcissistic, dramatic, self-absorbed, terribly shallow, unintelligent—all checked with being a poor, cocky actor who was desperate for money—but also: an inner confidence (not a quality of an underling drug dealer) and most notably, a high-pain tolerance (the delayed mention of the leg, only used for the benefit of attracting the girl, nothing to do with actual pain.) All checked out with the profile for a drug lord.

Never mind, Sherlock would be able to tell more once he got ahold of the autograph.

Lucy bowed to Mears slightly when he handed her the sheet, making sure to trip of herself with excitement.

"Thank you so much," she radiated. "You'll never know how much this means to me. I can't even, I just—I can't even thank you enough. You're the best—"

"My pleasure," he said, holding up a hand, flattered but dismissive. Traits of a boss, not a showman. He was playing further into their hands.

She bowed again.

"I'll go. Thanks again! Can't _wait_ to see the new movie!" And she scuttled off towards the car; knowing full well that a consulting detective was trailing along just behind her, smiling broadly.

* * *

Sherlock waited till the _Blood Runs in Gutters_ crew had cleared off for lunch before he explained.

"Definitely," he said, running his fingers over the signature as though writing it himself. "Definitely our man."

"Which man?" John asked. "There were two options." Sherlock glanced up at him.

"Hm? Oh, the drug lord, obviously. This is our ringleader for certain; just take a look at the autograph."

"Lovely," John muttered, declining the offered sheet with a gesture. "And I just sent my youngest child right into his arms. Fantastic."

"I'm fine," Lucy piped up comfortingly. "A bit appalled by him, but still untouched."

"Still _lucky_," John corrected. "Please don't tell your mother, alright? She would gleefully murder me."

"Done," Lucy said. "Now show us the signature." The last part was directed towards Sherlock, who obliging handed it to her. John, unable to handle himself, inserted himself above her shoulder to read along.

"Not enough of a swish in the capital letters," Sherlock explained, indicating. "Nor much of stylized quality. It's a business man's signature, despite whatever facade he tries to put out as an actor. He may have been serious about it before, but sometime over the ten year hiatus, he's become involved in a more syndicating career. No records of it publicly therefore it's secretive and he's linked to these drugs. If he were a low man on the totem pole, he wouldn't have nearly as much confidence, but lucky for us, he does—just see how he dots the 'i' in Colin—a quick, hard jab like that wants to make his mark. Anyone involved in the underground drug business with misplaced confidence like this doesn't last a year and he's been at this for nearly a decade.

"_Ergo_: we've a drug lord on our hands and a few of Inspector Gilligan's minions need only follow him for a few weeks to prove it."

Lucy grinned to herself. Lucy Watson, the fourteen-year-old; and Colin Mears, the drug lord. Not bad for a first real case.

"So that's it then?" John said, still huffy, though finally beginning to cool off now that his daughter was out of harm's way. "We're done here?"

"Of course we are. I've got the information I wanted to hand over with our man."

"Spectacular. I'm taking Lucy back to school then. Thank you for a lovely morning, Sherlock." He made his way towards the car before stopping and turning when he realized Lucy hadn't followed.

"Luce?"

"Can I, uh, can I—?" A thought had just occurred to her and she wanted to test her theory. "Can I ask Sherlock something?"

Her godfather, still scrutinizing the signature (probably working out what kind of shoes Mears did indeed prefer and which cigars his mother used to smoke) looked up at her with an uncustomary expression of surprise on his face.

John huffed and it seemed as though he was about to deny her and demand that Lucy return to school before something in his features softened.

"And I take it you don't want me overhearing?" he said quietly.

Lucy bit her lip. He understood her guilty affirmation.

"Fine. I'll sit in the car then. Come when you're done." With that, he opened the door and slid into his seat, though Lucy caught him glancing at them through the rear-view mirror once he'd closed the door.

"What do you want then?" Sherlock said, bemused, recapturing her attention.

She fixed him with a look

"This case," she said, peering at him shrewdly. "Why did you take it? It's only a five—on a good day."

Sherlock looked nonchalant

"It pays bills," he said simply.

"You don't care about bills," she scoffed. He considered her carefully and swallowed.

"...It's a six, give it a six at least."

"No. I won't cheapen sixes," she stated firmly. "This is a five and you know it. Why take the job?"

"It was better than the twos and threes that walked in this morning."

Lucy rolled her eyes; he could be so difficult when tried! But she was not going to let him worm his way out of this, because as of now she was 90% sure of her hunch.

"Fine. I'll use a different angle then," she said frankly. "You could have found all that information out without me."

A slight twinge in his cheek and his eyes narrowed a bit. He knew she was on to him.

"I needed a fangirl," he said in a matter-of-fact voice.

"You could've just as easily used Dad," she countered.

"True," he replied. And then there was a minute change in his voice: warmer, more tender. "...But I hadn't gotten you out of class in nearly three weeks and..." he swallowed. "The monotony was wanting for deviation."

It was as close to 'I love you' as he ever got. Lucy grinned at him impishly.

"Is that how you say you miss me during the weekdays?"

His jawset became firmer, his shoulders straighter. The moment was over.

"...We need to get you back to class," he said, his voice stiff but not unkind. He placed a hand on her shoulder as he guided her to her father's car.

"Using the Royal We...are we?" She teased. He smirked at her briefly.

"_We_'re smarter than you. _We_'re entitled." He opened the car door and let her in.

"Ah yes, forgive me," she said, leaning out of the window to adress him. "I'm just a mortal with a single personality and only capable of three simultaneous streams of consciousness in my clearer moments."

His voice was laced with some of the warmth from earlier: "Have some faith in yourself," he said. "You're better than you think." With a final wink, he straightened and turned to go.

…_Have some faith in yourself...Have some faith in yourself_...

As her father started the car up, Lucy stuck her head out of the window again.

"...Sherlock?"

He stopped, his posture alert and attentive, but didn't look back at her.

"Hm?"

"There is no difference in the pictures of the stained-glass-windows...Is there?"

A noncommittal: "Hm."

The answer wasn't quite good enough yet. She needed to be finite.

Lucy grinned.

"There is _no_ difference in the pictures," she said firmly. "They're the exact same."

He pivoted back to look at her, a smile tugging at his lips, and she knew she was right. He came forwards, put his hand on her shoulder, pulled her in, and kissed her forehead.

"Confidence," he said, his face still close and voice so low she knew her father couldn't hear them, though he was sitting just next to her. "That's the real trick."

"Right," she whispered back. "Confidence...And then comes the arrogance."

"Naturally." He was trying to hide his amusement, but they both recognized that there was laughter dancing in his eyes.

"I'm quite pleased with you Lucy," he said, smiling and winking as he drew away. "You're doing very well."

Lucy could feel herself glowing

"...And John?"

The doctor looked up.

"See you back at Baker Street."

John grunted, revved the engine, and pulled away, glancing at his daughter out of the corner of his eye and shaking his head. It was both a beautiful and terrifying sight to see her getting so involved with his best friend. Indeed, it was quite impressive to watch them work together, and though John never even considered that he would be replaced, he had to marvel at the new unit that had formed—the daughter and the detective.

_La Fin._


	5. Fully Set

_March, 18, 2014: _

Hey guys!

So if you've enjoyed this story, then you ought to know that I've published another one called Fully Set which is in the same little 'verse as this, written from Lucy's point of view again. It's just a onesie and Sherlock's teasing with his goddaughter at someone else's expense anew. Sounds slightly familiar, don't it...?

Anyway, please check it out, shoot me a review for either this or that (or both!) because I do totally-graceful dances when I get them, I swear- Marauder's Honor.

Hope all o' y'all are having a great day!

Freddie!


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